Purpose
by GingerTeaLeaf
Summary: He was living because the living could feel. Because he had to feel the jumble of pain and regret and guilt and shame that was pressed on his heart as a punishment. She was living because someone needed her help. Because this second chance was somehow a mission. And in a way, their aim was quite tightly tied to each other.


**I must thank frustratedstudent for being more than my beta, and for helping me immensely.**

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PURPOSE

CHAPTER I

She was supposed to join her Gavroche; her brother, the boy she had almost mothered through the years, the child who had joined, and fought the battles far beyond his age. She has promised him, after he was laid down inside the Café, to follow; she wouldn't leave him alone. And yet, as she thought about it now, Gavroche wouldn't need her any longer. It was she who had been condemned to loneliness.

Éponine had always wanted solitude. It was in her nature. Back then, when she had Azelma and Gavroche to care for, she would not choose it, but after Gavroche left for the elephant and she left for the freedom of the streets, things changed. Alone, she could discover, feel, learn... and the open world of the street bore no limits. There was a benefit to not being important; you could wander and be everywhere every day, and still no one would remember your face.

Yet, liberating as they were, the streets of Paris never were kind. They would drag one to the filthiest and most desperate measures of life given the slightest opportunity for recklessness. Each person had to set limits, know one's place, and never trust anyone. Knowing this was part of why Éponine had lived through terrible times, crushing situations...

But she had never lived through death, nor had she thought she would.

And only now did she realize, painfully walking among the cold bodies of men she'd felt the heartwarming feeling of friendship for, she wasn't grateful for the gift of life thrown back at her.

She had never lived for her own sake. From the moment she left the sweet world of childhood, she had done anything she ever did for others; first Gavroche and Azelma, then her unrequited love... who was now nowhere to be seen.

She wasn't surprised. She had seen Monsieur Marius's guardian angel, Cosette's father, as she had discovered one day. He surely had come to his rescue in some way. What a considerate man, she had thought back then, to keep an eye on his future son! They must be planning the wedding already!

It had hurt her, then, quite immensely. It had broken her to see her favorite person's life planned so neatly, waiting to be explored. It had hurt her to simply look upon his face... Éponine stopped dead. Why… why was it not hurting as much now? Monsieur Marius, _her_ Monsieur Marius would be married in a few weeks or months or god knew when, and she would be left to the mercy of her filthy streets, the one person who could, or would, care for her gone forever. Why didn't this break her heart as much as it did a day ago? Why was she only feeling pity? Had the bullet killed the feelings? Was that why she wasn't dead? Had her love for him prevented the bullet from striking a vital organ inside her?

Éponine touched the spot where she had been struck. She had found herself bandaged when she awoke, and with a few minutes of painful exploration, she figured out that the bullet had been removed; either to honor her or to be used again. She realized also that something else was missing, but this time from her pocket. "_The letter of course_," she thought, remembering now how her own fingers had brushed against Marius' when she'd finally handed over the missive that should have been his to read, and not hers to keep. She had no idea what was in that letter, only that it had come from Cosette. Perhaps that letter, and not any father-in-law or bullet, would be what would take Marius away.

But, without loving Marius, what would she live for now? Who would she live for? What would be her purpose? Herself? One never lives for the sake of oneself, with everything meaningful gone or lost or dead. Then again, one never returns a valuable gift.

She had nothing to lose. That was mainly the reason why she had chosen to die. No one missed her; no one needed her- except for Monsieur Marius, of course, in that fateful moment when she had spotted a soldier aiming towards him. So, perhaps she was needed now, too. Perhaps someone needed her help.

She would try and find that person, she decided, regardless of who he was or what he wanted. And if she failed, she would die defending another person's life. She tried to sit up as she looked around the shattered ruins of the cafe: the bloodied walls, the splintered staircase, and even the windows with their shutters blown away. If somehow she had survived this carnage, there was always the chance someone else could too.

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They say that mankind overlooks the grandness of the act of breathing, as it is as natural and usual as blinking, unless he is on the verge of death, or suffocation for any reason. Enjolras was not dying nor suffocating, yet every single breath he drew felt like an unexpected guest.

He had been laying there, for hours, perhaps, eyes closed, muscles numb, his brain immensely confounded. He did not understand. It was as unbelievable, as unacceptable as waking up in his father's arms. He very much wanted to open his eyes and see what had happened, yet the very thought frightened him. What would he see if he found the courage to look around him? Either that it had all been a glorious, terrifying nightmare, or that it had actually been true, and that he was laying in between the lifeless bodies of his friends, disgracing them with every beat of his heart.

He cursed himself inwardly. The leader of the revolution, the bravest one, the man readier than any other to die for Patria, was now afraid of the truth_. The truth was that we were all doomed, yet fighting for the right thing_, he bitterly thought_. And yet it all turned out wrong in the end_.

The minutes went on impossibly slow. Enjolras was agitated; his anxiousness made him nauseous. The worry stabbed him over and over again. He decided, at last, to open his eyes…

And found himself staring at a stained, half-ruined ceiling. It cost him a great ignoring towards his poor racing heart and his sickening feelings to take a look at his side.

He squeezed them shut, the moment his eyes fell on the body.

The guilt crushed him with a dead weight. The pain stabbed him in the heart. The hurt barred his throat, forbidding him to breath. The man on his left was not very familiar- he did remember his face but that was all, yet by seeing him, he had witnessed the men laid alongside him, and upon their faces, those of his friends.

His friends; his faithful, loyal, friends. Men of bravery and sacrifice. Men who followed a fool and his glorious plans towards a better France.

"What have I done?" he asked himself, drawing sharp, erratic portions of cold air. His mind almost numb and his head seemed to spin. His hand flew to his collar, loosening the cravat that now threatened to choke him.

That was it; he could no longer bear lying there among them. They were all wearing a sort of peaceful expression on their faces, and he, the one who'd led them to their death, did not deserve that peace. He didn't deserve anything at all, just the mercy of being dead.

And that, too, had been forbidden.

Enjolras's attempt on sitting up was followed by a sharp, painful gasp.

"My shoulder," he panted, clutching the wounded area with his right hand." I was shot in the shoulder."

Wasn't a shot in the shoulder enough to kill? Didn't pain kill? Wasn't there a General to suddenly find him and shoot him in the head as a final mercy for him and a job finished for the National Guard?,

Perhaps this was the price he had to pay for persuading all his friends to fight alongside him. They had been permitted to die, to escape the world for the sweet euphoric state of sacred oblivion, he had not. He was living because the living could feel. Because he had to feel the jumble of pain and regret and guilt and shame that was pressed on his heart as a punishment.

Perhaps living was his curse.


End file.
